


The Misfire

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Dean Hugs Jack, Emotionally Hurt Jack Kline, Gen, Guilty Jack Kline, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Misunderstandings, Remember Jack is A Little Nephilim Baby, The Winchesters Take Care of Castiel, Which I Think They Forget A Little, gunshot wound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 11:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18207623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Now that Jack is essentially human, there are things he’s going to need to learn.He’s a Winchester, after all.But while things go well with him and Sam, and him and Cas, it’s when Dean tries to show Jack how to shoot that it all goes wrong.And Cas pays for it.





	The Misfire

**Author's Note:**

> Jack is really unsure of his place in the bunker here, mainly because he still fears Dean holds Cas’s death against him.
> 
> And that twists his head and is what causes the whole situation about to unfold.
> 
> But everybody is okay in the end.

“It’s okay,” Dean said.

But it wasn’t okay. Jack dumped the gun on the counter, earning a tsk of disapproval from Dean, and trudged away from the shooting gallery in disgust with himself.

He’d spent hours down there, picking up the gun Dean had loaded for him, learning how to hold it, how to aim, what to expect when he finally pulled the trigger.

And yet he still couldn’t hit any of the paper targets Dean had set up for him. He couldn’t clip one, not even when Dean had taken pity and moved them all a good ten or fifteen feet closer.

Jack didn’t understand why; he’d done exactly as Dean had instructed, and he didn’t miss the look of disappointment on Dean’s face when he thought Jack wouldn’t notice.

Well, he noticed, and it certainly wasn’t helping; he wasn’t failing on purpose. He just couldn’t get it right!

Dean didn’t seem to have any words of support to offer; he looked at Jack for a moment, and then picked up the case for the ammunition, set it on the counter, and started putting away the different types of bullet he’d been helping Jack identify.

Jack watched him, and wondered; maybe...maybe Dean wanted him to fail.

That made sense, more so than that all the hours of practice and instruction Jack had endured had still left him a hopeless shot.

He’d have better lucking throwing the gun at something than trying to hit it with a bullet.

But Dean…. Dean was an expert marksman. Cas had told him so, back when the topic had come up of teaching Jack how to look after himself if push came to shove, how to help them hunt (because they all knew it would come to that, with things as they were) and Jack could have no one better to learn from.

So after Sam had taught Jack how to fight like a human, and Cas had taught him how to fight with an angel blade, Dean had stepped in to show him how to shoot.

Jack was improving daily with Sam and Cas. It only seemed here, with Dean, that he was encountering problems.

He didn’t want to think that Dean still held what happened to Cas against him; Jack had never wanted Cas to get hurt, Cas was his father, and it was Lucifer who had killed him, not Jack.

But he remembered how bitter Dean had been, how hateful and hurt, and maybe, he thought, Dean forgiving him and bringing him into the family was just an act.

So he could do things like this.

“Jack?”

Jack didn’t realise he was on the verge of tears until he heard the concern in Cas’s voice. He hastily pulled himself together, and turned away before the angel could come any closer.

“I think I’ve been staring at targets too long,” he lied. “My eyes hurt.”

He didn’t miss Dean giving Cas a look, and that just confirmed to him this was all a ruse on Dean’s part.

He was probably doing something to the guns so they wouldn’t shoot straight, or telling Jack the wrong way to stand, or something! 

How could Dean be so cruel to him?

Well, he’d show him.

He glared at Dean’s back as he stood talking to Castiel, and went back over to the counter. The box was still open, and Jack took three bullets out, one for each target, and quickly loaded them into the gun lying next to it.

He raised the gun, and fought to settle his nerves, and focused on the target.

Tried to imagine it was Dean, sneering at him, admitting he’d never forgiven him for Cas, for any of it, and telling him what a loser he was.

He squeezed the trigger, once, and the gun went off, and the bullet tore straight through the centre of the target.

“Jack!” Dean yelled, and of course he didn’t sound happy. Cas was here, and Jack had just pulled off a perfect shot in his presence, which probably ruined whatever lies Dean had been going to tell Cas and Sam later, about how Jack was just really useless at handing a gun.

He turned, grinning wildly, excitement swelling in his thoughts and blocking out anything else, including the loaded gun still in his hand, still held up because Dean’s yell had brought him so swiftly around.

Cas saw the danger first, and he pushed Dean aside, and then there was another loud crack and Cas was slammed back into the wall.

For a moment Jack could only stand there, staring. Cas seemed astonished; he stared down, open mouthed, at the blossoming red cloud that had appeared on his shirt, just right of and above his hip, and then he was sliding down the wall and to the floor.

Before he could move, Dean was on him, snatching the gun from his grip, making it safe, and shoving Jack angrily towards the door.

“Get Sam, tell him we need the emergency first aid kit down here, now!”

Jack staggered, but couldn’t make himself go out the door. Cas was moaning, eyes half closed, and that made no sense.

Bullets didn’t hurt angels.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “He shouldn’t be hurt!”

Dean jerked his head back once at the counter, where the bullets he’d ejected from the gun lay glinting in the overhead lights.

“Witch bullets, dumbass. He won’t die but this is gonna hurt. Jack, go!”

Feeling as if he was going to vomit, legs shaking, Jack raced off to find Sam.

++

“This...urgh...This isn’t his fault,” Cas protested.

Dean gave him a jagged glare as he carefully cleaned the area around the entrance site.

With Sam’s help, he’d got Cas up enough to check and make sure the bullet was still in there, and not a through and through.

That might have been easier, for Cas at least; more blood loss, more damage to heal, but at least then he’d only have needed a pressure bandage over some stitches, and a little time to rest up and heal.

Now, Dean would have to go digging around in there for the bullet, and then do the pressure bandage and the stitches.

And, with the bullet still lodged in him, Dean hadn’t wanted to take the chance of moving Cas to the infirmary.

Better lighting, more comfy bed for a shot angel, but two longer corridors and a flight of stairs he’d have to be nearly carried up.

Plus the risk of the bullet moving around in there doing more damage and making it harder to find than simply following the route it took going in.

“Later,” he told Cas. Jack could wait, and Dean wasn’t even sure at that point what he could say to the kid; anyway, right now, helping Cas came first.

Sam had a small penlight, narrow and bright enough for Dean to see as clearly into the wound as possible.

The bullet, thank Chuck, hadn’t gone that deep, but deep enough. He picked up a pair of forceps, wincing when he realised just how much this was going to hurt, and gave Cas an apologetic look.

“Think you can hold still?”

Cas nodded, but he’d already lost about three shades of colour, and Dean had a sneaking suspicion Cas might even pass out.

That might be a kindness, but personally he’d rather have Cas conscious so he could judge how he was doing.

Dean hadn’t lied to Jack; Cas might not be a witch, so he wouldn’t die, but there was some heavy magic involved in crafting witch killing bullets, and even an angel wouldn’t just shrug that off.

He found his temper raising again, as he tried to figure out where the hell Jack’s head had been at.

The first hour of their lessons had been spent with Dean telling Jack everything he shouldn’t do, drilling it into him, and one of those things was never to turn away from the target gallery with a loaded gun in his hands.

Clearly, Jack had paid zip attention to that.

“Dean.”

Sam must have seen his attention diverted again to who’d caused this, and he nodded, before carefully inching the forceps into Cas’s wound.

The angel seized up, but other than that he held still; all the same, Dean knew he was in a lot of pain, could still see the tiny trembles that told him just how much Cas was locking down to keep from moving while somebody fished about inside him for a spent bullet.

And there it was; he felt the forceps close on something solid, unyielding, and he carefully backed them out the way they’d gone in.

The bullet glistened red, and Dean dumped it and the forceps n the stainless steel dish from the emergency first aid kit, before backing up to give Sam more room.

Sam’s stitching was always better, not that it mattered because Cas would heal without a scar, but it was also faster.

And as it turned out, Dean was right; before Sam had even finished the first stitch, Cas was out cold.

The kind of thing that happened to angels shot with witch killing bullets who ended up decorating the floor with about half their blood volume.

++

Once he was stitched up, and a pressure bandage in place, Dean and Sam carefully carried Cas up to the infirmary. 

They saw him settled, covered with a blanket, and Sam pulled up a chair to sit with him while Dean went to deal with Jack.

He was grateful at least that the kid was where Dean had told him to wait, in his room, though he was pacing.

And he’d been crying, Dean realised; for a moment, that took some of the fire out of him, but it didn’t last.

He’d shot Cas. Carelessness, a moment’s inattention, Dean didn’t know, but bad as it was, it could have been so much worse.

Maybe Jack could have hit him in the head, or the throat, and the thought of that made his stomach twist uneasily.

“Is he alright?” Jack pleaded. “Dean, please, tell me Cas is alright.”

“Sit your ass down,” Dean said, and then, not unkindly, “he’s fine. Or will be, no damn thanks to you. What the hell were you thinking?”

Jack sat on the bed, shoulders slumped, arms wrapped around himself. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Hell, Jack, I know that. But you still _did_ it. What was the first thing I taught you?”

Jack shrugged. It didn’t seem to matter much now, since he’d set aside virtually everything Dean had taught him about guns that didn’t involve actually firing one, too eager to get to the best part. And to think he’d been blaming Dean earlier for being so awful at shooting.

When it was all down to him, and now because he’d let himself get bitter and impatient, and looked for someone to blame, his father was hurt and his blood was splattered over the walls and floor of the target practice area.

The tears came again, hot and wretched, and Jack sobbed so hard his body hurt.

He’d almost killed his father today, no matter what Dean said. If he’d shot Cas in the chest instead of the side, or fired more than once, or maybe there were other bullets in that box that actually would bring death to an angel…

And then Dean was sitting next to him and pulling Jack into his arms.

Jack didn’t resist. He turned so he could burrow into Dean’s hold, and cried until he felt sure there wasn’t a single drop of liquid left anywhere in him.

Even then, it wouldn’t stop. Huge, jerky dry sobs still came, until finally they too faded and Jack collapsed against Dean, feeling wrung out and spent.

“Yeah, okay, you feel better now?”

Dean eased him back enough to see his face, and brushed his hair away from his eyes.

“No,” Jack whispered, his throat too hoarse for anything else.

“Didn’t think so,” Dean said. “Look, we all do stupid shit. I messed up cleaning a gun once; damn think misfired, nearly took my hand off.

“The whupping my dad gave me, you wouldn’t believe. But it was nothing to him telling me if I’d got hurt, or killed, it meant me not being there to take care of Sam.”

Jack stared at him in shock. He knew a little from each of them about their upbringings, and he had carefully reasoned John Winchester was not a gentle man, or (in his opinion, one he hadn’t dared voice even to Castiel, a good parent) but that seemed cruel beyond belief.

To suggest that Dean’s only worth was as a caretaker for someone else, and to hold Sam’s safety and wellbeing over his older brother, a child still. himself, for a mistake, no matter how serious.

And then he saw the difference between Dean and John Winchester. Dean’s concern had been for Cas, but also for Jack himself, sitting here and holding him until he had settled down, and then taking steps to reassure him that one mistake, no matter the consequences (serious but remedied) was not the end of everything.

It still felt like it, though, since Jack would never forget the sound of that gunshot, or Cas’s cry of pain, or his body hitting the wall and then slumping down to the floor.

Or all the blood.

“Can I see him?”

Dean nodded. “Yeah. He’s probably awake by now, and if he is I bet he wants to see you. Nothing bad,” he added, quickly, seeing panic on Jack’s face. “Look, when you lose blood, sometimes you pass out. He’s gonna be okay, Jack.”

Jack nodded, but he’d feel more sure about it when he’d seen Cas with his own eyes.

He did as Dean suggested, washed his face so he looked a little less like he’d been crying, and then followed Dean down to the infirmary to make sure his father was alright.


End file.
